


set yourself on fire

by gemmamalo



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Panic Attacks, mention of traumatic injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 20:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18350819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemmamalo/pseuds/gemmamalo
Summary: michael's brain is never quiet without alex. sometimes, though no fault of his own, alex makes it louder, too.





	set yourself on fire

**Author's Note:**

> Alex does not actually appear. Set one year before the beginning of the series. Sorry to anyone else who has used this title/other lyrics from this song, but I am bad at titling and ran through my entire Malex playlist before I landed on this.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr.

Where a normal human has a brain, Michael Guerin has a whirring machine creating a constant cacophony of sights and sounds and ideas. Not literally a machine, he thinks, but he’s never gotten close enough to an MRI to find out.

A few things quiet the noise. Music, for one, though it’s near impossible for him to get enjoyment out of it anymore. Alcohol, acetone, sex, weed, fighting. They help. It’s all he can ask for most days, something to take the edge off, turn the volume down. Stop the equations that float past his eyes as he tries to sleep, the what-if conversations he gives himself in the shower.

But there’s only so much drinking he can do before he gets cut off by Maria, or simply reaching the end of the bottle. Only so much acetone before his whole body is numb. Only so much sex until he feels hollow inside. Especially when there’s something that would fix it all.

He knows what the cure is, but it’s rare. Hard to find in nature. Currently stationed in Afghanistan.

Michael has known peace only in the brief moments he has spent with Alex Manes over the past nine years. Had silence where there is usually deafening sound.

Until that sound comes crashing back. Whether it’s a hammer, or deployment, or Alex turning his back on him again and again. Michael almost doesn’t care anymore - he knows it’s dumb, pitiful almost, but no matter how many times Alex leaves, Michael always stays. And waits.

It’s not just the silence. It’s _why_ the silence happens. It’s that unspoken, unbroken tether between the two of them. Spanning years and continents.

It’s an alcohol night. Michael finds himself at The Wild Pony for the third time in as many days, sitting at the bar and bantering with Maria while he racks up his tab.

When the person three barstools down starts to talk, Michael has to take a second the recognize the voice. Anger welled up inside his stomach first, before he realized why that anger was present.

Kyle Valenti.

“DeLuca! It’s been a while.”

Michael didn’t dare look at him. He was a doctor now, apparently. Michael wasn’t sure he would want his worst enemy in the care of that man.

“Kyle! What are you doing around these parts?” Maria’s tone was jovial. Clearly she didn’t hold the same animosity - or maybe other people put on fake smiles when in the service industry. Michael has never bothered with those pleasantries. He’s fixing your car, whether he does it with a smile or a snarl.

“Oh, you know, I just figured it had been a while since I’d been in here. Saw the sign and thought of the old times.”

“The old times with you and Liz?”

Kyle laughed. It made Michael’s stomach turn. “Maybe. Do you know how she’s doing these days?”

“Arturo says she’s well. I haven’t seen her since Christmas a year or two ago - she’s in Denver, right now. Some sort of awesome experimental research something-or-other. I bet you’d make more sense of it than me. Either way, super proud.”

“Well, that’s our girl.”

Now it was Maria’s turn to laugh. “Not your girl, Valenti. She made sure of that.”

Kyle made some sort of snort into his drink, and changed the subject.

“How’s Alex Manes doing? You know, with everything?” He sounded concerned.

What was Kyle Valenti doing with Alex’s name in his mouth? Why show any concern for a kid he had bullied in high school? What is it with small towns like Roswell, hating the different kid until they do something socially acceptable like sign up for a pointless war?

Maria’s tone was hushed. “He’s doing alright. We spoke on the phone a few days ago, actually. He’s still in the hospital, but they’re sending him back home.”

Michael’s blood ran cold. He almost dropped his whiskey - his hand wouldn’t stop trembling. Above his head, bottles of liquor clanked against each other, shaking in their spots.

Kyle spoke again, doctor-voice coating his words. “With an injury like that, he’ll need to continue PT once he gets here. I can recommend him someone in my network-”

Michael couldn’t take it. He knew he could stay and figure everything out, quell his worries, discover the details, but his self control wasn’t enough. The acetone wasn’t enough.

He pushed off the stool, stumbling on his first step.

“You alright, Guerin?”

“Fuck off, Valenti.” He wasn’t even drunk, at least as drunk as he could be, but his words slurred slightly.

He made his way for the door. For fresh air.

Michael’s brain was overflowing with thoughts of Alex. What happened? What was his injury, how much pain was he in, where was he? When was he coming back?

His thoughts shifted - how had he not known? Their connection had always been so palpable, like a cosmic force guiding them like magnets. When they were together, he swore, he felt Alex’s emotions, pain, wanting, as if it were his own. And it was his own. They were like one soul, split.

He should have known.

He climbed into the truck’s cab, staring at the wheel before he realized he didn’t have the key.

Maria. _Damn her, she was good._

He fished his phone out of his pocket.

“Isobel?”

“Michael, what is it?” she was out of breath, flustered. Goddamn bunnies, those two.

Michael could barely force the words out. “I need you. Wild Pony parking lot.”

“I’ll be there in 10.”

When Isobel arrived, Michael was slumped over the steering wheel. Not passed out, just exhausted. She opened the door, helped him down. He clung to her like a child to their mother.

He finally broke down in the passenger seat of her car. Isobel said nothing, occasionally patting his shoulder or asking if he needed a tissue.

He only spoke once on the drive home. “I can’t believe I didn’t know. I didn’t feel it.”

Isobel didn’t dare pry. She simply felt how the car shuddered more than usual, how the decorations hanging from her rearview mirror bounced like the ground itself were shaking.

When they reached the Airstream, Michael was together enough to get himself into it; Isobel helped him change his shirt, got him a glass of water for next to his bed. She offered him acetone, and for the first time in nine years, he shook his head at the pain-killer.

“Do you want me to stay?” Isobel asked, looking down at her brother, curled up in the fetal position on the trailer’s tiny bed.

“No. I need to sleep. I need quiet.”

Isobel nodded. “Okay. I’m going to call you tomorrow, alright?”

Michael didn’t respond.

When the door shut, he squeezed his eyes tighter.

He was physically exhausted; sleep came quicker than he anticipated, and with it, blissful silence. For a few hours, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @cylonbarnes. Shoutout to maneschat.


End file.
